Page 12 of Only Mine
I stare at Celeste’s text for a long time, then type:Your brother-in-law had no idea I was coming. Nearly burned his kitchen down when I showed up.
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear, then reappear.
OMG, did I not tell him?? I SWEAR I texted him last week!
I can practically hear her voice, breathless with genuine horror but also somehow laughing. It’s Celeste in a nutshell, her heart perpetually ten steps ahead of her organizational skills. It’s part of what had us get along so well when we met.
The dots dance again.
Oh god, Wren, I’m the WORST. I was in Bali when we talked, and there was the yoga retreat drama with the fire ants, and then my phone fell into a rice paddy. But I meant to. Saint’s such a dick sometimes, but he needs the help, and you need the space, and it was perfect in my head! He’s not so bad once you get past the death glare. Promise. And Ivy’s the best.
I have to smile despite myself. Only Celeste could forget to mention to Saint that she was sending a complete stranger to live on his property.
He didn’t kick you out, did he?? Tell me you’re not texting from your car in some gas station parking lot. I’ll drive up his ass RIGHT NOW.
I decide to put her out of her misery.
I’m fine. Still in the guesthouse. But maybe call him?
Relief that I’m not mad at her pours through her response.I’m so sorry about this! Calling him right now. Love you!!!
Saint’s about to get an earful from his sister-in-law, and I can’t say I hate the idea. I’m trying not to think about the articles I’d found. About the tragedy lurking behind Saint’s eyes. About the little girl who lost her mother so young.
Not my business. Not my problem. Not my life.
I repeat this like a mantra as I drift off to sleep.
Sleep comes in fits and starts, my dreams a jumble of tattooed hands ladling sauce and little girls with paint-splattered fingers. When morning light filters through gauzy curtains, I’ve already been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the plaster.
The open kitchen is small but well-equipped. I find coffee beans in the freezer—good, imported ones—and a French press beside the sink. While the kettle heats, I throw on a robe I found in the bedroom closet and step onto the porch, inhaling salt air that feels cleaner than anything I’ve breathed in months.
The storm that welcomed me to Falcon Haven has left everything glistening. Once my coffee’s ready, I cradle the mug between both hands, letting the warmth seep into my fingers as I slip on my shoes and go back outside.
My shoes sink into the damp earth as I follow what appears to be a garden path. The air smells green and alive, like soil and flowers and pine. A sound catches my attention: birds calling to each other from the trees.
I pause beside a twisted apple tree, its branches heavy with small green fruit. My phone weighs down my robe’s pocket, but I resist the urge to document this moment. No filters needed. No caption required. Just me, experiencing something without a phone in front of my face.
The path curves around a small pond where water lilies float like tiny islands. A wooden bench sits beneath a weeping willow, its slender branches swaying in the gentle breeze. I settle there, tucking one leg beneath me.
“Oh my god,” I moan. “This is beautiful and I love it and I don’t want toleave.”
A little sparrow that landed nearby tilts its head, unimpressed with my emotional outburst.
Movement catches my eye, a flash of color beyond acluster of rosebushes. I leave my bench to investigate, coffee mug still in hand. As I round the corner, I nearly drop it.
Ivy kneels in the garden, surrounded by what looks like a rainbow explosion. Dozens of smooth river rocks are scattered around her, each painted in eye-searing colors. Her hands are stained purple and green, and there’s a streak of neon pink across her cheek that matches my hair. She’s wearing pajamas covered in dinosaurs, completely focused on the rock in her small hands.
She looks up, blue eyes widening when she spots me. For a moment, I expect her to bolt or yell for her dad.
Instead, she holds up her current masterpiece, a rock covered in swirls of blue and yellow that somehow form what might be a fish. Or possibly a planet.
“It’s better when you mix the colors,” she announces, as if continuing a conversation we’d been having all along.
“That’s gorgeous,” I say, genuinely impressed. “You have an eye for detail.”
Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You can tell what it is?”
I study the rock more carefully. “It’s a ... mermaid?”
